


I Don't Want to Feel Broken

by thedi_WRECK_tor



Series: Wye Oneshots [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Wye, early established relationship, morality discussion, suffering from nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5322686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedi_WRECK_tor/pseuds/thedi_WRECK_tor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because nightmares shouldn’t be faced alone and Jacob is just tired. Or: My attempt at meaningful, emotional hurt/comfort instead of just gratuitous flirtation and fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Want to Feel Broken

**Author's Note:**

> More trash for the trash ship. un-beta’d cause i like to live dangerously.
> 
> So this is chronologically before my other one-shots but still after Starrick's death and after they've been together a while.
> 
> Warning: There is some slight allusion to/mention of faith in here that is not meant to offend in any way. I got the impression that Jacob has the same sort of issues with his Creed as I do with my faith, and I drew on that. It's not meant to offend only to help give voice to his internal turmoil.

It was not widely known that Ned Wynert had an insatiable thirst for literature.

 

His home in the Strand was full of shelves full of books full of words in three languages, covering every conceivable drama under the sun with emphasis on mystery and adventure. True, there were a great many he had yet to read (heading one of London's largest crime syndicates was a time-consuming business after all), but they were cared for lovingly and hoarded selfishly. Just the other day he'd been offered a not unsubstantial sum for one of his treasured first editions far more than he'd purchased (yes, he did on occasion make legal acquisitions) it originally, and he'd turned it down without hesitation.

 

Lately (as in ever since the Fryes came to town) there just hadn't been time to relax and catch up on his favorite pastime. The Blighters were an ever-present mess to be cleaned up and time couldn't be spared to read that week's newest edition of _Varney the Vampire_. Not to mention with the male Frye's ah... unique approach to cleaning up London there were a lot of _new_ messes to be cleaned up.

 

Thankfully, though, it seemed things were on a bit of a downswing and not in a bad way. Attaway was gone and the London General Omnibus Company had replaced her less-than-refutable business. That whole hiccup at the bank had been righted and the riots had been all but forgotten. And even though there still seemed to be a pervading scent of ash and burning flesh lingering around the Alhambra ruins, Roth was dead and the Blighters as a whole with him. 

 

All in all, things were going well for Ned Wynert, American entrepreneur. Well enough in fact that he suddenly found himself with far too much time on his hands. And how better to fill that time than to stoke the fire in his bedchamber, pour himself a cup of his favorite tea, and curl up in bed with a half dozen books he'd been meaning to read for weeks (just in case he finished one, and didn't want to get up again to find the next). 

 

It had been hours since he'd settled under his sheets and cracked open the first of his novellas. His cup was empty and the kettle sat cold and forgotten on his nightstand. With a sigh he finished off the last page, smiling at the protagonist's parting one-liner and snapped the book shut, setting it aside so he could pick up the next. 

 

_Tap tap tap._

 

Ned froze, one hand extended towards his stack of books while the other slid beneath his pillow reflexively. He held his breath for a count of six before there was another series of insistent taps against his window.

 

_It's just a bird._ He tried to believe that, tried to believe that some enthusiastic pigeon was tapping at his window panes well after Big Ben had tolled the eleventh hour. He carefully slid his U.S. Colt Model 1860 out from under his pillow and checked the cylinder.  _Just being paranoid._ Whatever was outside his window tapped again, and just as carefully as he'd retrieved the revolver, he slid out of bed and padded slowly across the floor, peering into the darkness. His expression set in stone, hands steady, Ned reached out with his free hand to unlatch the window and shove it upwards before jumping back.

 

Nothing. 

 

He was met with nothing more than the usual ambient sounds of London at night. Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he edged closer, thumb on the hammer. 

 

“Ned it's me.”

 

Anger, annoyance, relief, and the strange flustered feeling he always got whenever he heard that familiar voice battled for dominance as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Dammit Frye I nearly shot you.” He snapped, setting the colt aside on a dresser and leaning against the sill, sticking his head out into the chilly night air and searching for the source of the voice. He didn't have to look far, as Jacob was hanging from the drainpipe, one foot braced on the window's frame and the other against the rough brick wall. He looked rather like an ape, Ned thought dryly. “What in God's name are you doing out here you lunatic, I have a front door.”

 

It was hard to tell in the low light but he thought the assassin grinned. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by to see an old friend.”

 

Ned shook his head and propped himself up in the window so he was sitting on the sill, back against the frame with his leg perched on the away knee. “Have you ever considered dropping by through the front door?”

 

Jacob's low chuckle always intensified that strange fluttering in his chest. “You ought to try my way once in a while, Wynert. It's a real thrill.”

 

Ned rolled his eyes. “You're an idiot.”

 

“At least I'm not a whining ingrate.”

 

“Listen if you want to sit here and debate on who was the bigger ass in that situation-” The thief was getting wound up, as he always did in the assassin's presence, and was settling comfortably into their routine banter when he noticed something off. There was a dark smear against the side of the window and he leaned forward, one hand gripping the wall to keep himself from toppling out of the window into a three-story drop while the other reached out to touch the unknown substance. He swiped a finger through the mess, not missing the way Jacob seemed to inhale sharply from where he hung, and pulled his hand into the light again, startled to see the tips of his fingers smeared red. “Is this... are you bleeding?” He demanded.

 

Jacob was silent for a moment, seemingly transformed into a rather unorthodox and poorly-placed gargoyle. “It's... not mine.” He finally admitted after a few seconds. When Ned simply stared at him, Jacob elaborated. “Templars.”

 

Ned cocked a brow at that but slid out of the window back into his room to walk over to the wash basin. “Might as well come in and clean up then. Can't have some blood-soaked idiot running around London scaring the wits out of the general populace.”

 

He kept his back to Jacob as he walked to the wash basin set in the corner of his room and dipped his hand into the cold water, wiping his hands on the towel hanging off the mirror. He kept his back to Jacob as the assassin swung in through the window and landed with an elephantine thump onto his floor and shut the window. He kept his back to Jacob as he turned to stoke the fire, and the assassin took his turn at the wash basin to wipe some of the grime and blood from his own face and hands.

 

He kept his back to Jacob because very suddenly he was feeling very exposed.

 

His relationship with the taller man was... complicated, to put it lightly. He'd been alone with Jacob often enough, and had  _been_ with him often enough as well, but this felt... different. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what about this situation was making his spine tingle and his fingers twitch as he added another log to the fire. 

 

“You got a trim.”

 

Ned blinked and straightened up, turning to see the assassin already stripped to the waist, his jacket thrown over a chair and his gauntlets stacked beside the basin. His eyes roved over the defined planes of Jacob's chest, lingering over his tattoo before dipping down to the light dusting of hair beneath his navel. There was static in Ned's ears as he blinked again and looked back up to find Jacob watching him. “What?”

 

He both hated and loved that stupid, cocky grin Jacob aimed his way. “I said, 'you got a trim'. Your hair, you daft fool.” When Ned continued to stare at him blankly. “You trimmed it, yeah?”

 

Ned's ears felt warm and a hand found its way self-consciously towards his scalp. “It was getting long.”  _And starting to curl at the ends again._

 

Jacob's grin widened. “It looks nice.” That being said, he turned back to the wash basin to finish cleaning up.

 

Feeling just a bit dazed, Ned made his way towards the lounge seat and flopped onto the cushion. “Thanks. So... What were these Templars up to that warranted their death? Don't get me wrong, after these last few months I've no sympathy for them-” He said quickly, before Jacob could go on a tirade. “I'm just curious.”

 

Jacob fell silent again, scrubbing at the blood that had clotted over a wound high on his forearm that Ned had only just noticed (and he'd be mad at Jacob later for lying to him). “Got any bandages?”

 

Ned inhaled and let the breath out again sharply before standing up to go search for the triage supplies he kept on hand, just in case. He hated having his question evaded, but he let it drop for now. He left the room and returned a few minutes later with a small leather bag, handing it without comment to the assassin before retaking his seat on the couch. Wordlessly, Jacob finished cleansing before he applied antiseptic to the wound with barely a flinch spared. When he was satisfied that the gash was clean, he wrapped it in a length of clean white bandages. “Are you alright?”

 

It was a broad question. One that encompassed more than just the deep wound on his forearm. Jacob was far too quiet, unable to meet Ned's eyes as he shrugged back into his shirt. It was beginning to worry Ned, but he said nothing more as Jacob crossed the room and flopped down beside him, leaning against the back of the couch and draping his injured arm over the back. He stared silently at the ceiling for a long while before he finally spoke. “I'm tired.” It was the simplest way he could put what was brewing within him at the moment.

 

Ned frowned, turning slightly in his seat to face the assassin. “You were just in a fight. Of course you're tired.”

 

Jacob shook his head, never taking his eyes off the apparently very interesting ceiling. “It's... more. I'm tired in the broadest sense, Ned. I'm...” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I'm worn out.”

 

The thief felt a sudden stirring of pity for the assassin, and reached out to lay his hand on Jacob's shoulder. “You've been through a lot in the past year, Jacob. Anyone would be feeling a bit stretched thin.”

 

A faint crease appeared between his brows as he bobbed the shoulder under Ned's hand. “I s'pose.”

 

Concerned, Ned let his hand drop, studying the rough set of Jacob's facial features. There was something both somber and angry in his expression, layered beneath the overall look of utterly worn out he'd been speaking of. Tapping his fingers against his knee, Ned chewed the inside of his cheek a moment before standing and making his way to the cabinet set opposite his bed. He opened it up to reveal a few heavy crystal decanters full of various shades of amber liquid and some equally heavy glass tumblers. Selecting one of the bottle and two glasses, he turned back to find Jacob watching him thoughtfully. “What?”

 

Again, Jacob shook his head and closed his eyes. “Only thinking.”

 

Peeved, Ned made his way back to the couch and set the drink and glasses down on the table. “About what?” His only response was a half-hearted head shake. He kicked Jacob's foot. “What is wrong with you?”

 

Ignoring him, Jacob sat up and reached for the decanter, uncorking it so he could pour a generous amount of the whiskey into both tumblers. He set the whiskey aside and lifted his glass, toasting Ned absently before tossing it back as if it were water.

 

Ned's concern intensified. 

 

“Did you have a fight with Evie?” 

 

Jacob barked out a laugh and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. “A day hasn't passed in the last twenty years where Evie and I don't quarrel at least once a day. This morning it was because I left my boots out again and she tripped over them. Again.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But I know what you meant and no, Evie and I weren't fighting. Things are almost peaceful between us.” He dropped his hand and opened his eyes, staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “It's been nice. I've missed her. Missed being in sync. Coming to London...” He trailed off. Ned thought that if he tried to push him, he wouldn't finish and it seemed important that he do so. “Coming to London put us through a loop I wasn't sure our relationship could weather.” He finally finished. “Putting an end to Starrick hasn't fixed all our problems but...” Restless, Jacob sat up and grabbed the decanter again. “We're working on them. I'm starting to realize we can't have the same relationship we had before. I hate to admit that anything saddens me as much as that does but-” He tossed back the whiskey in his glass, frowning at the burn in his throat. “There you are. And this isn't what I came here for.” He poured himself a third and pushed to his feet, ambling away towards the window. 

 

Ned finally picked up his own glass, tracing one of the facets of crystal with his thumb. “Then why?” Jacob turned to face him again, his expression blank. “Why did you come?”

 

The assassin regarded him quietly for a moment before his gaze fell to the glass in his hand, as if he'd forgotten where it had come from. “Truthfully... I don't know.”

 

Ned brought his glass to his lips simply to give himself time to chew that over. He watched Jacob over the brim of his glass as the assassin turned back to the window, shoulders drooping and arms folded across his chest. The whole thing irritated Ned and he wasn't one-hundred percent certain why. Jacob was too quiet, too pensive. And while a more thoughtful and calculating Jacob Frye would likely be some kind of improvement, this was... wrong. It was wrong, something was wrong and Ned felt an illogical  _need_ to uncover whatever it was that was bothering his... 'friend'. He grasped at the first topic he could come up with. “Tell me about the Templars tonight.”

 

Jacob leaned against the window frame, staring out into the night like some brooding protagonist on the cover of one of his novels. “We-...  _I_ am an assassin. It's my job to kill Templars.”

 

“Yes and being a civilian I'm not privy to the entirety of the assassin/Templar relation but I know enough to know that you generally have a reason for each Templar you put an end to.” (He didn't add that Evie's reasons tended to be a little more thought-out and more efficiently executed but-)

 

“Why isn't them being Templars enough? We're good, they aren't.” Ah, and here they were, getting to the root of it Ned thought. “Good always wins out at the end of the day, right?”

 

Ned shook his head. “Morality isn't black-and-white, Jacob. I thought you knew that. What was it you told me... Everything is... true?”

 

“'Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.'” Jacob murmured.

 

“That sounds rather like a gray morality to me.”

 

“You weren't raised with it.” He didn't snap, but Ned would almost have felt better if he had. He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey to wash out the taste the rebuke had left on his tongue. “If you had been, you'd... It's complicated, Ned. It's bloody complicated and complex and confusing and steeped in the typical hypocrisy of Faith, upheld blindly by those trained from the womb to follow it.” He slammed his glass down with more force than necessary and yanked open the window again, thrusting his head out into the cool night air, breathing hard as if he was suddenly oxygen-deprived. He was quiet again, shoulders tensed and hands curled into fists on the sill. “I've had the Creed drilled into my head since before I could walk.” His voice was a low murmur, but Ned caught every word. “And after I turned six it was beaten deeper into me every day by my father. But I've never understood it. Not as it's meant to be understood. Maybe... Maybe that's why I'm such a shit assassin.”

 

“Don't be absurd.”

 

“I'm not!” He whirled to face Ned with an almost manic look in his eyes. “I'm a piss-poor assassin when it comes down to what we're meant to be. Oh sure I can spill the blood-” He kicked with ill-temper at the chair he'd draped his patched, frayed, stained coat over and paced away again, snatching his glass back up and draining what remained. “I can and have spilled an ocean of blood when ordered to and on my own. I can kill a man any number of ways, from the simple to the grand. I'm not as good at the whole stealth operation as any self-respecting assassin should be, but if I'm caught I've got the bulk behind the blade to put a man down with no fuss. I manage to bungle my way through every mission or... or order I'm given but at _least_ I complete them. If we're talking strictly in terms of lives taken in the name of the Order, the only person in the entire region that surpasses me is Evie. And if every murder I've committed in the past months for the sake of freeing London was going to be counted by the council, I'd finally have outmatched her.

 

“But I don't resent her.” He gestured violently out the window and glared at Ned, as if daring him to disagree. “My sister is a grand assassin, a fine woman, and a wonderful person. For all our problems, for all the animosity between us this last year I've never resented my sister, I love her. I love my sister and I'd die for her without a thought. I don't want to outpace her because... because she's a woman or anything so petty. Our entire lives have been one big sibling rivalry fueled and encouraged by our late father and his manic obsession with the Creed. His blind faith in it and in the Council. While other children were helping on their farms or playing in the mud or chasing each other up and down the street in front of our home, at seven years Evie and I were already hitting targets dead in the center with throwing knives. We were already scaling the sides of buildings, timed by our father while he threw rocks at us, trying to knock us off. And after training, instead of bedtime stories and family games, we were sat in desks in his study, learning the long history of the Order and parroting the thrice-damned Creed back to him until our voices cracked. And it didn't matter how well I held out when sparring with him, because Evie was the one who was never caught when he was trying to teach us how to sneak, and Evie was the only one who followed the lessons and Evie was the only one who understood that _fucking_ Creed. I was the one who was too slow, too loud, too lazy, too interested in _screwing off_ to be anything but the ham-fisted, hard-headed brother of the most promising young Assassin the council had seen in years. All I've ever known is being an Assassin with a capital Ass.”

 

He seemed to deflate suddenly, his shoulders drooping and his chin falling against his chest as he dropped into the nearest chair. He let out a shaky breath and rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. “I'm... I'm tired.” His head raised and his eyes, distant and empty met Ned's own. “I'm tired of it all.”

 

Ned stood, setting aside his drink as he crossed the distance between the couch and the chair. Jacob followed him with that empty stare as Ned took the empty tumbler from his fingers, replacing it with his own. Jacob squeezed his hand almost desperately. “Jacob, when's the last time you slept?”

 

Jacob blinked. A guilty sort of frown creased his brow as he lowered his gaze to the floor. Ned's free hand went to the back of his head, carding through his thick, dark hair. “I don't know.” He finally admitted. “A while. It's been a while since I've had any real sleep. I can't. Every time I close my eyes I...”

 

Ned stepped closer so he was standing between Jacob's legs and pulled the assassin towards him until his forehead rested against his stomach. Jacob dropped his hand in favor of wrapping his arms around the thief's waist, holding him tightly. “Nightmares are nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“I'm not ashamed.” Jacob replied, voice muffled from where his mouth was pressed near Ned's navel. “I'm just exhausted.” He turned his head so his cheek was resting against the shorter man instead, his eyes closed as he tried to focus on the pleasant feeling of fingers in his hair instead of the roiling in his gut that had persisted over the last few days. “Every time I try to sleep, I see the faces of the people I've killed. And worse. So much worse. I almost prefer reliving the bloodshed to the other.” His fingers twisted in the back of Ned's nightshirt, arms tightening around him. “Awful things. When we were kids I could talk to Evie about it but-” He shook his head and buried his face in Ned's stomach again, eyes shut tight to hold back tears he didn't want to shed. “I'm tired.”

 

“Up.” The command was simple and quiet, but Jacob's brain was little more than static and jumbled, disconnected thoughts at the moment. He pulled back to look up at Ned as the shorter man moved his hands to Jacob's arms, trying to coax him into letting go of the death grip he had around the thief. He released his hold quickly, confusion and hurt in his eyes. Ned however slid his hands down Jacob's arms and took his hands, pulling him up into a standing position. “Lift your arms.” Frowning, Jacob obeyed, and tried not to show his surprise when Ned began to pull off his shirt. He gave the thief a half-hearted smirk, his mind immediately swerving into the gutter but Ned gave him the 'look'. “Don't get excited, Frye.”

 

“I can't help but get excited when a handsome fella stars undressing me, Wynert.”

 

Ned rolled his eyes and nudged Jacob towards the bed, which only succeeded in making Jacob's grin widen marginally and waggle his brows. Ned laughed. “God, is sex all you think about?”

 

“I don't know about God, but it sure is my favorite thing to think about.”

 

Ned pushed at his chest until he was forced to sit on the mattress and knelt in front of him, trying not to grin as Jacob hummed in the back of his throat. “Stop it.”

 

“Ned I must once again point out that you are the one undressing me.”

 

He finally had to laugh as he began untying the tight laces and numerous buckles on Jacob's boots. “You're going to sleep, Jacob Frye. And for tonight, you can sleep here.” He pulled off first one, then the other of Jacob's boots and set them aside before finally lifting his gaze to find Jacob staring thoughtfully down at him again. “What?”

 

Jacob reached out, his rough, calloused fingers gentle as he cupped Ned's cheek and rubbed his thumb against the high, angled bone. “I know why I came here.” His other hand came up so he was framing Ned's face, and he urged the shorter man to stand, pulling his face close to brush his lips over Ned's chastely. “Thank you.”

 

“I haven't done anything but take off your boots.”

 

Jacob shook his head and kissed him again. “You've done more, and I'm grateful. For it, for you.” he sighed and touched his forehead to Ned's, before releasing him to swing his legs up onto the mattress and settle back against the pillows. He watched Ned while he gathered up the glasses and decanter, tucking the whiskey away and setting the glasses aside for cleaning. He closed the window, then finally returned to his side of the bed, sliding beneath the sheets and glancing over to find Jacob still watching him. “You're supposed to be sleeping.”

 

Jacob's tired smile brought out one of his own as the assassin rolled closer, throwing his arm over Ned's lap and burying his face near the thief's hip. “I should go back to the base.” He mumbled, voice already slurring with sleep. “Evie will want to know how the mission went.”

 

Ned carded his fingers through Jacob's hair again as he picked his book up once more and opened it on his lap. “She can wait until morning. No more talking.” His fingers alternated between rubbing lightly against Jacob's scalp, and kneading the point of tension at the base of his skull. They sat in silence for the length of time it took Ned to finish two chapters, the only sound being the occasional turning of a page and their slow, steady breathing. Glancing at the clock over the mantel, Ned decided that it was time for him to settle down for the night and set aside his reading for tomorrow. Marking his place, he set the novel on the bedside table and moved all the others beside it then turned off the gas lamp set in the wall above and to the side of his bed. In the darkness, he wiggled down until he was laying on his side, facing Jacob. He thought the assassin would have been asleep by now, so he was startled when, seconds after closing his eyes, he felt a pair of warm, chapped lips on his own. His eyes flashed open again to find Jacob watching him blearily.

 

“Thank you.”

 

And with that, the assassin finally drifted off.

 


End file.
